


Nonfiction

by boonies



Category: DBSK|Tohoshinki|TVXQ
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NaNoWriMo #2: DBSK's backup dancer needs a fake boyfriend. Kindhearted Yunho gets roped into helping. Changmin gets... the rope? ...yeah, there is no plot here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nonfiction

*

 

"Haha," Yunho laughs from the doorway, flushed like a fire hydrant. He sheds his coat and kicks off one boot and says, "You'll never guess what happened."

 

Changmin looks up from his game, mouth twisted into an unpleasant pout.

 

"What happened," Junsu asks indulgently, eyes trained on the screen, one foot clawing into the console.

 

"Someone asked for a favor," Yunho explains with a sheepish smile, "so I kinda have to fake-date them for a bit."

 

Changmin hates everything.

 

He pummels Junsu's character into an impressive TKO, bashes his head into the platform until the game glitches out, then shrugs and grunts, not caring at all, not caring one fucking bit, "Don't get her knocked up."

 

"Haha," Yunho repeats awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "It's sort of... not a woman...?"

 

Junsu drops his controller.

 

Changmin crushes his.

 

Yunho stands there, looking carefully blank.

 

Changmin's teeth draw blood from his bottom lip, gums itching.

 

No one says anything for two full minutes.

 

"...it's Ishikawa..."

 

"Hyung," Junsu points out naively, inspecting the peeling insulation where Changmin has wrecked the wire, "Ishikawa is a _man_."

 

"You can't," Changmin growls, jaw clenched. "You can't date a guy."

 

"I'm not _dating_ him," Yunho jumps in defensively, brows knitting, "I'm _pretend_ -dating him because—"

 

"No."

 

Yunho scowls harder, leader mask in place. "Because my Japanese is still pretty bad so when he asked—"

 

"No."

 

"—I accidentally said okay."

 

" _No_."

 

"Wait, who's dating a dude," Yoochun asks, poking his head into the living room.

 

Jaejoong peeks above him, excited. "Can we film it."

 

"Hyung is drunk," Junsu explains.

 

Yunho gives the room a 360° withering look.

 

"Listen, I'm only telling you," he starts, suddenly sounding sober and unamused, "so you don't freak out during dance practice tomorrow."

 

*

 

Changmin freaks out.

 

Ishikawa is short and petite and Changmin fucking swears the kid can understand Korean but refuses to admit it because he's a professional doucheface so Changmin maybe nudges him a little during practice.

 

Maybe nudges him through the wall.

 

"CHANGMIN," Yunho snaps.

 

"...it's made of paper..." Changmin mumbles apologetically, turning an innocent palm up.

 

Ishikawa grabs onto Yunho's proffered hand, hearts in his eyes.

 

*

 

"It's legit," Yoochun reports because he's picked up the most vocabulary so far and so he's been sent to scope out the situation and apparently buy candy. He wraps his mouth around an obscenely red lollipop and adds, "He just needs a fake boyfriend for a week until his parents leave for... I wanna say China. Vietnam?"

 

Distracted, Jaejoong nods as the lollipop bobs. "We weren't really paying attention."

 

"Hyung's doing a good deed," Junsu chimes in not at all helpfully, hero-worship dialed up to eleven, "so let's... not judge how wrong the deed is."

 

*

 

Changmin's hair hurts.

 

Yunho's training Ishikawa, bending gracefully by the barre, executing a flawless low-swept hook, and stretching to his full height with an air of pure temptation, and so Changmin ghosts across the studio to paw at the back of Yunho's sweatpants.

 

"Hyung," he says cheerfully, eyes kind of bulging out, lips stretched into a menacing smile, "we need help."

 

Oblivious, Yunho smiles at him and wipes the sweat off his forehead and affectionately pats Changmin's hair, all, "Ishikawa and me are almost done—"

 

"Yoochun-hyung's gonna break a lung," Changmin insists, nails digging into Yunho's sweatpants, koala-style. "He needs lungs to breathe, hyung."

 

A look of concern crosses Yunho's face so Changmin snaps around to shoot Yoochun a sinister glare.

 

"...hyung," Yoochun shouts across the studio, compliantly waving one skinny arm and looking done with life.

 

"Sorry," Yunho excuses himself in Japanese, flashes a smile too charming for this world, and scampers off.

 

Changmin instantly turns to face Ishikawa.

 

"That is mine," he says in accented Japanese because he doesn't know the word for _ours_ , probably, and points at Yunho's head, "and that," Yunho's chest, "and that, and," Yunho's everything, "that."

 

"...I don't want any of it, Changmin-san..." Ishikawa says guardedly but Changmin knows.

 

He knows.

 

_Everyone_ wants Yunho.

 

*

 

"Where you going," Yunho asks mechanically, engrossed in a schedule.

 

Yoochun pauses by the door with a guilty twitch, one hand frozen by the coat rack. "The river."

 

"Which river."

 

Stealthily, Jaejoong sneaks by, pocketing the keys. "...the one by the bridge..."

 

With a sigh, Yunho looks up. "Which bridge."

 

Yoochun and Jaejoong exchange a wordless look then say in unison, "The one by the river," and skedaddle.

 

When the door shuts behind them, Changmin maniacally pushes Junsu out of the way to join Yunho at the kitchen table.

 

"What are you gonna do if the media finds out you're dating a dude," he demands, slamming his palms to the schedule.

 

Yunho gives him a pleading sleepy look.

 

" _Pretend_ -dating," Junsu supplies from the floor, rubbing at a bruise.

 

Changmin ignores him.

 

"No one's gonna find out," Yunho promises.

 

Changmin scoots his chair closer, cutting into the tile beneath. "What exactly will you have to do with him."

 

Studiously, Yunho fixes his gaze on the torn schedule with a too nonchalant tilt of his dumb head. "Nothing gross. Just... you know. Hold hands during dinner—"

 

"You can't," Changmin says, eyes narrowed, "you can't hold hands with a guy."

 

"...we hold hands all the time..." Junsu reminds with a wince. "Hey, how close is the nearest hospital?"

 

Changmin's chair scrapes against the floor again, knee knocking into Yunho's. "What dinner."

 

Yunho busies himself with his uncharged phone. "Just... you know. Dinner with his parents."

 

"You can't," Changmin warns, "you can't have dinner with his parents."

 

"...he's had dinner with mine..." Junsu sighs then hops up and hobbles over to the hallway. "Please check on me in two hours in case I have a concussion—"

 

Changmin's gut is a cesspool of dread and frustration and worried violent things.

 

"Hyung," he appeals desperately, "you can't go gay just because we're in Japan."

 

Yunho makes a face.

 

"You can't go gay in general," Changmin corrects, jamming his knee deeper into Yunho's thigh.

 

"Changminnie," Yunho tells him patiently, "nobody's going gay."

 

*

 

Yunho turns off the light.

 

Tense, Changmin listens to the mattress groan as he climbs in.

 

He tunnels into his pillow for a couple of minutes, listening to Junsu's soft breathing and the restless rustle of Yunho's sheets, then slips one foot out of his blanket.

 

Then a leg and then two and then his whole body is out of bed and crossing the room.

 

"Hyung," he whispers, slipping behind Yunho.

 

Startled, Yunho turns to face him.

 

The only light in the room is in the far corner, by Junsu's bed, where a nightlight in the shape of a soccer ball is shining bright, so Changmin draws near, just to see Yunho's eyes.

 

They're wide open and spooked and Changmin exhales.

 

"You always say practice makes perfect," he tells Yunho quietly, hands shaking a little, "so I'm gonna help you."

 

Yunho stills.

 

"Help me with what."

 

"Practice," Changmin says and shoves his hand under the blanket.

 

Yunho jerks away, backing his ass into the wall. "What are you—stop."

 

Changmin moves closer, the tip of his nose hovering by Yunho's chin.

 

"I'm helping you fake-practice," he whispers harshly, tugging Yunho's boxers down, "for your fake-boyfriend."

 

Angry, Yunho shoves at Changmin's shoulder, short blunt nails digging into the soft cotton of Changmin's t-shirt. "This isn't funny—"

 

"No," Changmin agrees, hesitating for a moment, "it's fake. You said it's fine if it's fake." He closes his eyes and curls his fingers around Yunho's cock.

 

Fuck.

 

It's already half-hard.

 

Impulsively, Changmin brings his hips closer.

 

"Okay," Yunho says, shaky, "I get it, it's wrong, Min-ah, you've proved your point—"

 

Yeah, Changmin's not trying to prove a point.

 

Changmin's just done.

 

So he brings his other hand to Yunho's chest and fists Yunho's shirt with a harsh exhale then pumps Yunho once, twice, slowly, experimentally, twisting his wrist on the upstroke.

 

Yunho's breath hitches.

 

He fills Changmin's grip, grows wet and thick, hot and smooth under Changmin's fingers, and knocks the back of his head against the wall.

 

There's nowhere really left to go and so Changmin presses impossibly close, grinds his chest into Yunho's, nuzzles his jaw, and swings one leg over the blanket, heel digging into Yunho's ass, knee smacking into the wall.

 

"Wait," Yunho pants, curling into Changmin, cock pulsing, "no, w— _oh_ ," he bucks into Changmin's hand, hissing _fuck_ , so Changmin speeds up, too rough and too quick, shoves his thumb into the slit and drags.

 

Yunho arches his back, mouth open wide, eyes shut tightly, sweat beading by his temples.

 

He's shaking all over and Changmin feels crazy, absolutely fucking insane, high on Yunho's rasping moans and slick with sweat and precome and he owns this, owns Yunho.

 

"Hyung," he grunts into Yunho's jaw, breath wet and hot, and Yunho spills.

 

He comes hard, with a muffled hoarse moan, one hand clawing at Changmin's shoulder, the other ripping the seam in Changmin's shirt.

 

Chest heaving, Changmin thoughtlessly wipes his hand on Yunho's hipbone, stunned.

 

Junsu's bed creaks.

 

"Don't trade Xavi for Ronaldinho!!" he shouts dramatically then lets out a soft snore.

 

Sudden panic fills Changmin, fueling his muscles.

 

Deafened by adrenaline, he hastily disentangles himself from the blanket and the sheets and Yunho and bails for the bathroom.

 

Once in, he drops his briefs to his ankles, braces himself against the sink, and furiously strokes off, eyes burning with shame.

 

*

 

"They're having dinner tonight, I guess," Yoochun translates in the morning, rubbing at his eye with a sleep-deprived yawn. He tosses Yunho's unlocked phone to Jaejoong's bed, where Changmin is currently hiding.

 

"They can't have dinner," Changmin mumbles halfheartedly, blankets pulled up to his chin, briefs sticky and stiff.

 

"...can I have my bed back..."

 

"Changmin-ah," Yoochun says, smacking Jaejoong out of the way, "don't worry about hyung so much. He'll be fine."

 

"And it's not like being gay is contagious," Jaejoong reasons kindly, pulling the blanket off Changmin.

 

"Right," Yoochun agrees, "it's not like Ishikawa's gonna just sneeze on hyung and suddenly everyone's gonna be into butts—"

 

"...ah, Junsu would be in so much trouble..."

 

Yoochun tries not to laugh, but then he does, cracking up with a helpless giggle, so Changmin kicks them both off, completely fed up, and leaves.

 

*

 

"I need to talk to you after practice."

 

Changmin freezes halfway out the door. "About..."

 

Yunho yanks him back by the collar. "What you did was disrespectful and I didn't appreciate—"

 

Changmin meets his eyes.

 

Yunho looks flushed and distressed but he's not averting his gaze.

 

So Changmin rises to the challenge and squares his shoulders.

 

"Hyung," he says coolly, "it was pretend, right. I was doing you a favor."

 

*

 

Across the studio, Ishikawa fondly fixes Yunho's hair.

 

Changmin hurls a water bottle at the shoe rack.

 

*

 

"Hyung's late."

 

Junsu glances at the clock.

 

"By a minute," he deadpans. "Yeah, he's probably dead in a ditch somewhere."

 

Changmin roundhouse-kicks Junsu's character off the screen. "What if a fan sees."

 

Junsu examines his controller for damage then starts a new round. "No one's gonna see."

 

"What if—"

 

The door unlocks.

 

Changmin tries not to look but his eyes hawkishly scrutinize Yunho for marks and scratches and bites.

 

"Definitely not doing that again," Yunho greets, tossing his jacket at the couch, then, off Changmin's frigid glare, picks it back up and hangs it properly.

 

"Did his parents yell at you," Junsu asks sympathetically, patting the spot next to him.

 

"No," Yunho frowns, "they wanted me to stay."

 

Changmin twitches.

 

"Where are the other two," Yunho mumbles, scanning the room.

 

"Probably Sapporo by now," Junsu sighs, twisting the wire. "Yoochunnie wanted noodles."

 

"...so they went to... never mind," Yunho waves it off. "I'm gonna borrow their room tonight."

 

*

 

Changmin tosses and turns for an hour.

 

Then throws the blanket off and stomps out.

 

With a bang, he pushes the door to his hyungs' room open and marches right up to Yoochun's bed.

 

"Did you fake-hold hands," he asks.

 

Yunho cracks open one eye, face down in the pillow, back bare, sheet down around his waist, hair tousled.

 

He's bathed in the dim hallway light and shit, Changmin's going to die.

 

"No," Yunho says calmly.

 

"Did you fake-kiss," Changmin asks, heart pounding at a stupid dangerous rate.

 

Yunho doesn't move but his shoulder blades flex.

 

Fuck.

 

Before Yunho can answer, Changmin is taking a step, then mounting the bed, then straddling Yunho.

 

He palms the small of Yunho's warm back, leaning all his weight into it and leaving white hot stains, thighs clamping down, and repeats, " _Did you_ , hyung."

 

"No."

 

Relief seeps through Changmin's bones like acid.

 

Only to be replaced by anger.

 

"Is it over."

 

Beneath him, Yunho shifts, back muscles contoured by Changmin's shadow and the fading specks of light.

 

"No," he says firmly, burrowing into the pillow, hands sliding under it. "Five more days."

 

Recklessly, Changmin nods to himself.

 

"Hyung," he promises softly, "let me stay and... help. I won't do anything," _that you won't like_.

 

Yunho doesn't move.

 

"...Junsu will hear," he murmurs at last but does so in a way that makes hope blossom in Changmin's stupid chest and pits it against a brutal rush of lust. "Close the door, Changminnie."

 

Changmin's cock throbs.

 

No way in hell is he getting off Yunho, so he leans down and brings his lips to Yunho's ear and says, "He's still got a concussion, it's fine."

 

Yunho's shoulders shake with repressed laughter.

 

Disbelieving and a little paranoid, Changmin savagely runs one hand up Yunho's spine, over his nape, to tangle viciously in his hair. "You're okay with cheating on your fake-boyfriend."

 

Yunho tenses.

 

"Fake-cheating," he reasons after a moment, turning his head slightly to glance at Changmin, eyes hooded.

 

Changmin loses it.

 

He sinks his teeth into Yunho's shoulder, nails leaving deep crescent marks by the curve of Yunho's ass, other hand tugging at his hair.

 

"Changmin—"

 

Changmin's cock strains against his boxers, twitching impatiently.

 

"Hyung," he manages, just barely, "if you thought I was disrespectful yesterday..."

 

Yunho shivers.

 

He doesn't look at Changmin as he says, "Leaving was the disrespectful part."

 

Changmin freezes.

 

"I'm okay with everything else in the world," Yunho admits, neck and cheeks flushed, "except you leaving."

 

Yeah.

 

Okay.

 

Violently, Changmin raises his hips and tears at the sheets between them, pulls them off Yunho's body like a madman, leaves dark red burns on Yunho's skin, tosses the linens to the floor, panting.

 

"Hyung," he warns, "the crazier you make me," he rolls Yunho to his back, resettling atop him, "the less gentle I—"

 

Yunho cups him through his boxers, long fingers digging into the cotton.

 

Changmin's muscles give up.

 

Shaking, he collapses atop Yunho's chest, Yunho's hand trapped between them, the ridiculous length of his cock poking at Changmin's stomach through Yunho's briefs.

 

With a quiet sigh, Yunho works his fingers through the slit and curls them around Changmin's shaft, thumb caressing the head and if he thinks this is some sort of dumb repayment deal, a simple safe reciprocating handjob for a handjob, then Changmin's gotta prove him wrong, he's gotta—

 

Mindlessly, he grabs Yunho's hand and yanks it away, slides down Yunho's warm body, peels his briefs down and nips at the underside of Yunho's cock, sticks his tongue out and flattens it, rough and greedy, licks up in tiny hungry laps and sucks the head in.

 

Yunho spreads his legs wide, head thrown back, hands twisted in the sheets.

 

Whatever levee's in charge of keeping Changmin behaved and rational snaps.

 

All kinds of indecent thoughts overflow, short-circuit his system, and push him into unchecked chaos.

 

There's no time for this shit.

 

There's no time for anything.

 

Impatient, he shoves his boxers down and snaps up and straightens between Yunho's legs, drives one rough palm into Yunho's sharp hipbone and licks the other.

 

He's watched enough porn to know he'll need to slick himself up, so he guides his cock to Yunho's ass—

 

"Wait, what," Yunho gasps, sobering, "no, fuck—that's too far, Changminnie—"

 

Frantically, Changmin grabs for Yunho's thighs, claws his way down to Yunho's ass and drags him up at an angle, bent attractively below him, legs hooking under Changmin's elbows.

 

"No," Yunho growls, low and threatening, jaw clenching, abs clenching, ass clenching.

 

"Hyung," Changmin murmurs, common sense and decency blown, "it's not—it's just practice—"

 

Yunho lifts his hips, cock straining against his stomach, briefs tangled around one ankle, "We're not playing anymore—"

 

Changmin hasn't been playing since the day he met Yunho.

 

So he releases his grip on Yunho's thighs and drops his arms to his sides, summoning every ounce of remorse he can reasonably fake.

 

Yunho watches him for a moment.

 

"...take off your shirt," he says softly and sits up against the pillow.

 

Changmin complies quickly, before Yunho can change his mind.

 

Yunho stretches out a hand, wrenches open a dresser drawer, and grabs a bottle.

 

...oh.

 

Yunho's not gonna change his mind.

 

"I think this," Yunho starts falteringly, "should—" he turns his face, cheeks dark, "probably work. Fuck."

 

Changmin paws for the bottle, cock throbbing.

 

"I'm sorry," he says senselessly, drenching his palm with lube and hastily smearing it across Yunho's cock and balls and down his ass, "hyung, I'm sorry."

 

Yunho gives a small noncommittal grunt, wincing at the cold and instinctively scooting even farther away, so Changmin grabs him by the ankles and pulls him back down, hauls his hips up, and slams his crotch against Yunho's ass with a wet indecent squelch.

 

Yielding, Yunho anchors his feet in the sheets, hipbones sticking out, elbows shaking.

 

Changmin spreads him open greedily.

 

"Have to," he mumbles and tries to push in.

 

It's way too tight and Changmin has to fight to keep control but Yunho shuts his eyes tightly, face caught in a peculiar mixture of pain and pleasure, tongue sweeping across his wet lips, and Changmin just gives up fighting, shoves hard past an unyielding ring of muscle and sinks in, a tiny bit, then thrusts in all the way, bottoming out with a strangled, desperate cry.

 

He tries not to come but his cock is dying, gripped hot and tight inside Yunho, friction and pressure bordering on pure pain.

 

"Move," Yunho commands, throwing an arm over his burning face.

 

So Changmin moves like a fucking animal, pounds away with no distinguishable rhythm or discipline, pumps so hard into Yunho the mattress comes off the box and shifts their bodies around until the soles of Yunho's feet are plastered and banging against the wall, Changmin trapped between them.

 

"Cha—fuck," Yunho moans and Changmin speeds up, buries his face in Yunho's sweaty neck, mouth open in a silent scream, and fucks Yunho half off the bed, follows him off the mattress as though fused together, comes inside him like a landmine a second before they hit the floor.

 

*

 

 

Changmin wakes up to complete darkness.

 

Which means someone's closed the door.

 

Which means Yunho left.

 

Which means everything's fucked up.

 

"You're not even old enough to drink," Yunho apologizes against his nape.

 

Changmin tenses, warring between relief and worry.

 

"Neither are you," he retorts stubbornly.

 

He tries to stretch the ache away, but he's on his side, spooned by Yunho, facing the wall.

 

...trapped.

 

"Gotta practice one more thing before we stop," Yunho whispers dangerously, drags his lips down Changmin's shoulder, and probes gently at his ass.

 

Fuck.

 

Changmin jerks, uncomfortable.

 

"Hyung," he grunts in warning, "I won't like it."

 

Yunho slips a lubed finger in.

 

Changmin curls up, a weird stinging thrill running down his spine.

 

Yunho mouths between his shoulder blades, softly, gently, nothing like Changmin's clumsy vicious rage.

 

"Just," Changmin groans, resigned, "do it fast."

 

"No."

 

Lightly, Yunho moves his finger. With every gentle thrust, he places a kiss on Changmin's back, sinking lower down his spine, setting his skin on fire, slow-simmered and kind.

 

" _Fast_ ," Changmin insists.

 

Yunho adds a second finger, stretches Changmin slowly, drags out the burn until Changmin's breath catches.

 

He leans his forehead to the wall, burning up. "Hyung."

 

Tenderly, Yunho twists his fingers, drags the tips down and curls them into Changmin and Changmin jerks uncontrollably, muscles seizing.

 

Unthinking, he pushes back, slides deep onto Yunho's fingers, past the knuckles.

 

Yunho's breath hitches in response.

 

Slowly, he scissors inside Changmin, pressing his chest closer, resting his jaw on Changmin's shoulder.

 

The stretch is gratifying, all kinds of proper and good, and Changmin feels guilty, so guilty he didn't do this for Yunho, but then coherency disappears as Yunho's other hand grazes his cock, briefly tugging at the crown and all of Changmin's nerves light up, want traveling up his body like a cataclysmic chain reaction.

 

Unhurried, Yunho adds a third finger.

 

"Hurts?" he asks, spooning closer, cock pressing into the small of Changmin's back.

 

"No," Changmin admits, already hovering near a toe-curling orgasm.

 

Yunho moves his free hand up and scrapes a nail over Changmin's nipple.

 

"Changminnie," he breathes, "do you want it to hurt."

 

Changmin almost comes.

 

"Yes," he hears himself moan, clawing at the wall.

 

"Too bad," Yunho smiles against his skin and moves his hand down again, works Changmin's cock slowly, stretches him open with gentle pressure, does this until Changmin is a squirming incoherent mess, whining and keening and trying to shove his ass at Yunho.

 

"You said," Yunho reminds, slippery and hot and meticulously maddeningly slow, "you wouldn't like it."

 

"I lied," Changmin snaps and reaches back to grope at Yunho's heavy leaking cock, desperate, "I'm a liar, just—hyung—"

 

Yunho pushes in.

 

Changmin stops breathing.

 

"No," he pants, lungs burning, "faster."

 

Leisurely, Yunho moves both hands, wraps them around Changmin's stomach, splays his fingers like in prayer, and pumps slow, deep, deliberate, pulls almost completely out then gradually thrusts back in, so gently and carefully Changmin wants to cry.

 

*

 

Changmin wakes up sore.

 

Sunshine's streaming through the blinds, blurring his vision, bright and obnoxious.

 

And then his eyes adjust.

 

...fuck.

 

Mortified, he hides under the blanket, smelling Yunho and himself, smelling Yunho+himself, leveled by a strong urge to taste everything he hasn't yet—Yunho's cock and balls and everywhere else but mostly his lips—

 

"Fake-modesty?" Yunho greets, voice rough with sleep, and pounces, wraps the blanket burrito in his arms and surrounds Changmin in heat and affection, pressing soft messy kisses to Changmin's dirty hair.

 

*

 

"What happened to my bed."

 

Mid-chew, Changmin looks up at Yoochun, innocence personified. "What's wrong with your bed, hyung."

 

Yoochun hesitates.

 

Next to him, Jaejoong fumes. "What happened to... ah... the thing I had in... hair gel. What happened to my hair gel."

 

So innocently he could star in a 1950s Disney movie, Changmin cocks his head, spoonful of cereal held gingerly in one hand. "What happened to it, hyung."

 

Jaejoong falters.

 

From the kitchen, Junsu's concerned voice breaks the silence. "Why's hyung limping??"

 

Across the counter space, Yunho meets Changmin's eyes.

 

"Haha..." he tells Junsu with an awkward laugh, laced with reprimands and promises, "...minor issue during practice." Casually, he grabs the schedule off the wall and adds, almost gratefully, "Changminnie made it all better."

 

Changmin grins into his cereal.

 

Nothing fake about that.


End file.
